A Scandalous Connection

by Hayley Ann Solomon

Genres: Regency Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

Might His Charade Unmask Her Heart?

"Do not come home. . .
I have a perfectly clever plan up my sleeve. . ."

Those words, penned by his sister Caroline, are precisely what prompts Demian, Duke of Darris, to ride like the devil from London back to his ancestral estate. For Caro's "plans" tend to go awry in the most creative--and unfortunate--ways. Now, with the family property in arrears, there's no telling what well-meaning mischief the minx might get up to. Demian arrives home not a moment too soon--to find his sister hosting a gaggle of well-to-do spinsters--and himself forced to pose as none other than his own butler! On the brink of engagement to a stiff-rumped society heiress, Demian can hardly afford to playact, and intends to quash Caro's harebrained scheme posthaste. That is, until he sets his eyes--and his heart--upon Miss Amy Mayhew. One glimpse of her fiery spirit and unconventional beauty is enough to make him risk both fortune and reputation. . .for a chance at her love.

Release date: June 6, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Lady Caroline Darris smiled cheerfully as she carefully dotted her last i. She then very virtuously affixed a cross to one of her untidy ts, and blew hard. The ink dried almost instantly under this exuberant treatment, but at the expense of the ink pot. This teetered for a moment at the edge of the table before spilling little streams of purple onto the floor.

“Bother!” With great presence of mind, her ladyship heroically saved the letter. She was not so fortunate with her gown, however, this being splattered a quite noxious shade of violet.

“It will stain!” Lady Caroline cried out.

“I am delighted. You have been wearing that rag for years. The hem is too short and the sash is sadly—horribly—outmoded.” Lady Caroline’s companion was most unsympathetic. Indeed, she actually nodded approvingly as she looked up from her pattern cards.

“Now maybe you will be coaxed into the sea-green poplin we—”

“Nonsense! It is nothing. Now listen to this, Martha . . .”

But Martha was not paying attention, for the tea was being brought in, and it was her delightful task to pour.

Lady Caro therefore took the opportunity of dabbing at the faded Aubusson carpet, smudging her fingers and rereading her missive in silence. Apart from underlining a few key words here and there, she believed she was satisfied. Consequently, she took up the noble seal of Darris and carefully franked the very lightweight letter.

It would be conveyed to London with the first post. His Grace, the duke of Darris, may have his pockets horribly to let, but his consequence remained enormous, a fact that Caroline could not help but remain aware of, for in Bath there were forever people bowing and scraping and staring after her as though she were some prize monkey rather than merely the sister of the highest ranking peer in England.

Fortunately for her, she never resided in Bath long enough to allow the matter to irk her, though she did giggle a little at its foolishness. At Darris, at least, the duke’s chief seat, she was free to do as she pleased. And this she did, with a winsome air of innocence that endeared her to every one of the duke’s tenants, from the blacksmith to the baker. No one seemed to mind that she invariably set out without a groom, or stopped to eat wild blackberries off the hedges, or almost never wore a bonnet, though she was several months past seventeen. Her good nature and lively spirits quite made up for any deficiencies of hauteur, and so her governesses had told her, even when they had meant to scold.

Now she was past needing a governess, and was prim enough to actually have a companion, but since this was only dear Martha, who had nursed her since she was three, she did not mind this too dreadfully.

Lady Caroline allowed an irrepressible chuckle to escape her lips. Martha—or rightfully speaking, Miss Bancroft—eyed her suspiciously.

“You are up to your tricks again, Caro!”

“Me?” Caroline contrived to look hurt, though her eyes danced quite shamelessly.

“Well, only a small trick, Martha, dearest, and I am sure we have already discussed it a dozen times or more. Now do be a dear and unpoker your face long enough to listen to this.”

Without waiting for a reply, she buoyantly ripped open her newly sealed missive and read it aloud with relish.

“Demian,” it ordered,


Caroline folded the letter again and resealed it in a new envelope. It was a bit crumpled now, but she knew her esteemed and noble brother, for all his impeccable address, cared less about such trifles than she did. She grinned at her confused companion.

“Now that should keep him away for a fortnight! I’ve never known a man to stand by idly when a lady has nothing to discuss but her bonnets and sashes and pelisses and gowns. Demian will have no patience with it. He is lucky he is a man. Goodness, Martha, do you really think I need that many?”

It was the hundredth time she had asked such a foolish question, so Martha did not hurry to respond. Rather, she sipped her tea with singular enjoyment, then stirred in a little sugar. When she’d had at least five such invigorating sips, she pushed a brimming china cup under Caroline’s nose and nodded her graying head firmly.

“Caroline, you have no idea what a season requires! As the sister to a duke you will be expected to be a veritable fashion plate! You need walking gowns, morning gowns, bombazines, brocades, silks—the list is endless. Your court gown was one thing, but now you need ball gowns, theater gowns, opera gowns, riding habits . . . and no! You cannot appear twice in the same outfit—it is unthinkable.”

Bright eyes twinkled in response. “Stuff and nonsense! If lords and ladies of society cannot tolerate the same outfit twice then I have no wish to enter such a rake shame set. They should all be ashamed of themselves.”

Miss Bancroft sighed and took up the faded jaconet she’d been pilfering for its excellent pearl studs. Caroline was a dear, but she could be so pigheaded at times! She simply had no notion of what was owing to her station.

Now, the elevated young peeress of the realm watched Martha for a moment, gulped down her scalding-hot tea in a most unladylike fashion, and nodded approvingly.

“Keep that jaconet. I am sure we can use it for something.”

There was an ominous silence as Miss Bancroft searched about for a sufficiently biting retort. Then she nodded.

“Yes, like as not the chimney sweep could do with a few extra yards of sweeping cloth.”

“Martha!” But Caro’s lips trembled on the brink of a very sweet smile. “Oh, do not be a scold! Throw it away and be hideously extravagant for all I care! After next week, we shall be able to afford it. Only I do wish you would buy yourself a few yards of silk.”

Her companion merely sniffed and waved her needle airily. “Tush! I have all the gowns I need. It is not I who is going to be the talk of London when she is presented! And, Caro, I can only say I have a funny feeling about this scheme of yours. . . .”

“Oh, don’t, Martha, dear! It is perfectly foolproof! Some wealthy—hideously wealthy—people want to traipse through a ducal residence. What can possibly be the harm in that? They shall see all our arbors and topiaries and stone statues and gargoyles. . . . Then, when they are pleasantly tired out from this exclusive enterprise, they shall have a superb view of the galleries, the libraries—goodness, we had better remove the holland covers—the marble floors and pilasters, the Aubusson carpets, the fountains, the turrets—we had better make the north one respectable—perhaps we can move in a carpet—the gold plate, the hideous candelabrum and so forth. We shall dress up in all the Darris finery—Demian gave me the key to the jewels eons ago—and we shall look exactly the part.”

“The part? This is not a pantomime, Caroline!”

“Oh, but it is, really! These widows and merchants are not paying ten thousand pounds—ten thousand, mark you—for a sight of me in worn frocks and you in your blacks! No, they want splendor and pomp and . . . and . . . majesty! They want gilded clocks and interminable feasts, and—”

“Caroline! Even if I were to countenance this harebrained scheme, where are we going to muster these sumptuous feasts? We have been living on jugged hare for days, now!”

“Only because we insist on it! I daresay if I speak to Williams, the game keeper, he could procure some pheasant and duck and boar and such. I believe there is even still game, though Demian stopped stocking the woods about a year ago. Still, we can cook it all in the kitchens, and if we raid our Christmas supply . . .”

Miss Bancroft looked sadly unconvinced. In particular, she was not quite partial to the “we” that her honorable charge was bandying about so liberally. Lady Caroline eyed her with an impish gleam of amusement. However much she disapproved, dear Martha could always be relied upon to fall in with her schemes. That was what she so particularly liked about her. Impulsively, she clasped her hands.

“Ouch!” A stray needle was pulled impatiently from her doeskin glove. Then that bewitching, beseeching smile of Caroline’s that Miss Bancroft never could like, simply because it was too delightful to resist. . . .

“Don’t look so glum! I have some simply splendid recipes jotted down from Miss Apperton’s Seminary. And we can raid Demian’s store of wines—the cellars are not completely contemptible yet—”

“Over my dead body! His Grace will kill you!”

“Not if we present him with the sum often thousand pounds, he won’t! He can discharge all his mountainous debts, buy the best king’s burgundy and still have change to spare! Then he need not nose about for some detestable wife. . . .”

Miss Bancroft was silenced for a moment. The argument was certainly the most powerful of any that Caroline had yet produced, for truly it would be a shame to see a man as splendidly handsome and spirited as the current duke marry for the sake of convenience alone. Surely Demian, whom she had known since short coats, deserved better? Caroline was right. If there was a way, they should seize it. Still, there was no need to throw caution to the winds.

“Are you certain they stated that much? I can hardly credit such extravagance.”

“I am certain. Here, see the letter for yourself.”

Her ladyship scrabbled in the folds of her seventh-best overdress to procure the much vaunted missive. She handed it over to Martha with a small smile.

“See, Mrs. Murgatroyd is most specific. Ten thousand pounds upon admission—I believe it is to be a party of no more than a half dozen young ladies—and a further bonus if all is found to be exceedingly satisfactory. She included a small retainer as a deposit. We can use it to buy teas and sugared plums and such. Also some feathered quilts, though naturally they shan’t be staying overnight.”

“Are you certain?”

“As the day I was born! Why, we should never be able to keep up the charade. Well, at least I don’t expect we should!”

“Well, of course we shouldn’t, you silly child. A day shall be hard enough.”

Caroline smiled. No, she did more than that. She leaped from her seat and threw her slender frame around the rather more buxom one of Miss Bancroft. “Oh, I knew you would see reason! I shall write at once to say that Tuesday at nine will be acceptable. I shall use Demian’s stationery and seal it with the ducal signet. No doubt they shall be dazzled from the splendor.”

“Well, I hope so. They will need to be dazzled if they are not to notice the shabbiness of this place,” came the dry retort. “I remember the day when Darris Castle was the finest residence in all of England—”

“Yes, Martha, dear,” Caroline hastily interjected, for Martha could certainly run on at times, especially when it came to the long gone days of ducal magnificence. If only Richard, the fourth duke of Darris, had been a little more frugal . . . but she had not the time to start on that worn out old hobbyhorse.

“I wonder what is required to make the outing exceedingly satisfactory and therefore qualify for the bonus?” Miss Bancroft mused, squinting at the letter.

Caroline flushed. “Oh, we shall disregard that part!” “But why? If we can attain the bonus, then His Grace will be able to restore his stables—”

“Oh, I know! It irks me dreadfully how he has had to sell off the best of his broodmares, and even the riding stock is sadly depleted, though he has left me Windspur, for which I am naturally very thankful.”

“It is an impossible beast! Not fit for a lady!”

“No?” Caroline grinned. Her smile was infectious.

“Oh, get on with you, you know you are a bruising rider, I shall not deny it. But you circumvent the issue. Why shall we not try for the bonus Mrs. Murgatroyd hints at?”

Caroline made a face. It was not ladylike, but beyond a small sigh, Miss Bancroft let it pass.

“I believe their requirement is impossible.”

“Impossible? How singularly unfair! What do they want?”

Caroline sighed. “I cannot be certain, for they only delicately hint, you know.”

“Hint? At what?”

“They want, dear Martha, no less than the presence of my esteemed brother, Demian, the duke, himself.”

“Ah.” Light dawned in Martha’s old, but nonetheless shrewd-sharp eyes.

“They are spinsters, then, this party?”

Caroline grimaced. “It may be purely coincidence. They never said, after all. . . .”

“They didn’t need to, did they? Ten thousand pounds is a prodigious sum. No doubt they regard it as the investment of the century.”

“Crackpot gamble, more like. But if they are silly enough to think that Demian . . .”

“Perhaps they have heard he is searching for an heiress.”

“Perhaps. Still, it shall not help them overmuch. We shall not see hide or hair of him for a fortnight at least.” And with these fateful words, Lady Caroline waved her missive in the air, buttoned her pelisse, forgot all about her walking bonnet of sea green chip straw, and skipped out of the room.

In a decidedly unfashionable part of London—though definitely more opulent than some of the understated addresses at the revered Grosvenor Square or Cavendish Gardens—a similarly fateful conversation was taking place. This, rather a monologue, for it consisted chiefly of the words of a large lady dressed sumptuously in scalloped sleeves and skirts. These, sadly, were dwarfed almost entirely by her turban, which was emerald in color and sported enough feathers to dress an ostrich, if that contingency was ever necessary. It would be unkind to say that the woman actually resembled that bird, for indeed, the feathers had been dyed such an outrageous assortment of colors that no one—not unless they were demented or dreaming—could have made such a dire mistake. Still, she presented an interesting sight, certainly more colorful than that of the unexceptional young lady seated beside her, who was remarkable for nothing but the luster of her dark, cropped hair, and the peculiar spark of intelligence behind slate-gray eyes. Certainly, her gown would have drawn no particular comment, for though it was undoubtedly of the first stare, it was also understated in the extreme, being a gentle dove pink and bedecked with not even one cluster of redeeming rosettes. Even the ribbons, drawn modestly across a deliciously—had she but known it!—intriguing bodice, were silver, not the more modish shades of flamingo and crimson and gold. Now, she folded her gloved hands patiently in her lap and attended the monologue with not a little resignation.

“Now, now, Amy, dear, you must trust me. Just because you went to Miss Simpson’s Academy for Young Ladies does not mean your dear Aunt Ermentrude does not know what is best for you. And on that subject, why in heavens do you think we procured quite the largest diamond set from Lacey’s—I had it on the best authority that it is larger even than the countess of Winsham’s —when you insist on wearing those trumpery pearls? If you wish to catch a gentleman, my dear, you must not allow him to think you behind hand in any manner or fashion. And you cannot gammon me into believing gentlemen don’t care for such things, for your uncle saw Lord Iverley buying the hugest bracelet of sapphires, and if Lacey had not already drawn out the tray he would doubtless have procured them for you.”

Mrs. Froversham Worthing—she would like to have been known as “the Honorable” Mrs. Froversham Worthing, but, most unfortunately, her husband, though excessively rich, was disappointingly untitled—stopped for a short breath, but only so long as was strictly necessary to fill out the full extent of her corsetted lungs.

“And so, my dear, what I was saying from the start, was that you simply must avail yourself of this opportunity! When I think of that spiteful widgeon Amelia Corey being included in the party—and she with not an ame’s ace of your beauty—it fair makes me boil with rage. You must go, my dear, you simply must. I insist on it, indeed I do. And if the duke should just happen to be wandering in his gardens . . . oh, Amy! Wouldn’t it be delightful if he should see you standing there, like a sylph. . . . Oh, yes, you must take the diamonds, they will glitter extraordinarily in the dusk light—”

Miss Amy Mayhew could not help interjecting, at this point, to mention that it would be highly unlikely that the duke would be in residence so close to the Temperton races, and further, if she were ever to achieve the hideous prospect her aunt had outlined, dripping in diamonds like a . . . a sylph—here she stopped to stifle a small shudder at the prospect—she would doubtless remind His Grace more forcibly of his notorious barques of frailty than strike him as a serious matrimonial prospect.

At this, her aunt made shocked protest and announced that even she—who was not schooled in the ways of the nobility, though heaven knew, she was born above her station and fancied she knew a little about such matters, and if only Mr. Worthing would make the smallest push, he could procure for them a barony—that young ladies did not refer to such matters, or even know of them, though gracious knew there were enough light skirts about London to very likely fill the halls of Carlton Place.

She took another breath and pinched Miss Mayhew’s cheeks till they were pink. Amy, used to this particular display of affection, managed, somehow, not to flinch.

“But dear, dear, Amy, I implore you not to mention them! Pray pretend, I beg you, that you have never heard of them. Indeed, I am at a loss to know where you did hear of such matters! Not at Miss Simpson’s, I am certain.”

Miss Mayhew did not correct her certainty, though her eyes lit up with sudden laughter. What she also refrained from mentioning—very scrupulously too—was that the sapphire bracelet Lord Iverley had bought had gone, not to his wife, who despised such vulgar ornamentation, but to his latest mistress. She held her tongue for two reasons. First, her Aunt Ermentrude was right. She should not know about such matters, but since Lord Iverley’s scatter wit niece was also her bosom bow, it was difficult—indeed, impossible—not to hear of such things. But more importantly, she knew that arguing with her aunt was a lost cause. It always ended up in prolonged swoons and episodes with sal volatile. And though she could not herself abide such acute displays of sensibility, she did truly love her aunt and had no wish to distress her unwarrantedly.

So she meekly promised never to discuss such distressing matters—which, indeed, was not hard to do, for she had no real notion that the topic would ever present itself in company—and braved the multiplicity of feathers to kiss Mrs. Worthing’s nose.

That lady was much mollified. She adored her niece, despite her disappointingly stubborn streak on certain matters of the utmost importance. Marriage, for instance. Amy steadfastly refused to make the slightest push to find herself a nobleman, a deficiency that Mrs. Worthing found a sore trial, indeed. Now, she rose to her feet, fortified by Amy’s show of compliance.

“Then you shall join the duke’s party?”

“It is not His Grace’s party, Aunt! Indeed, I would be astonished to learn that he knew anything of our intentions! Mrs. Murgatroyd has been corresponding with Lady Caroline Darris, who, I understand, is his sister.”

“Oh! Well, then! It is all perfectly acceptable! I’m sure Lady Caroline must be all that is proper! Now you can have no possible objection to accepting!”

Mrs. Froversham Worthing’s feathers bobbed in relief. To press home her advantage, she took Amy’s hands firmly in her own. “It really is my dearest wish, Amy! If your dear departed parents were alive I feel certain they would have said the same.” She added, as an afterthought, “And it is your uncle’s too, I daresay.”

Uncle Froversham, when applied to, looked up from his account book and nodded vaguely in the direction of his wife, his niece and his two young heirs, who were both squabbling most unbecomingly on the Aubusson carpet he had imported—at terrific expense—from Paris. He wished, for a moment, for a breath of fresh air, for though the room was decorated in the most sumptuous sty. . .